The Prickly Bush
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: “Margaret Franks,” Norrington read aloud. “For impersonating an officer of the His Majesty’s Royal Navy, you have been sentenced to be, on this day, hung by the neck until dead.”
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **The idea of this story came to me today, so I decided to write the prologue and post it. The title comes from one of my favorite folk songs "The Prickly Bush" which details the pleas of a woman trying to escape her death by hanging. I am more interested to see what sort of feedback I receive so if you like it and wish me to continue, please review. Also, if you don't like it, please review anyway and tell me why. I love constructive criticism. This story is an AU (it won't follow along with the events of DMC) and takes place during the COTBP. There will be no romance, no slash and no Sues, simply friendship (and tons of angst later on!) I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. Enjoy!

**Summary: **"Margaret Franks," Norrington read aloud. "For impersonating an officer of the His Majesty's Royal Navy, you have been sentenced to be, on this day, hung by the neck until dead."

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.

**The Prickly Bush**

**Prologue**

The glare of the noon sun cut into James Norrington's eyes. He looked away, but could not escape the sound of the drums. A smart tattoo was pounded out, not mournful as he had expected, not somber. Shimmering heat rose up off the ocean. Gulls swooped low and clipped the waves.

Cruel, they chattered or so Norrington fancied. Cruel man.

He wondered vaguely if there might be a way to avoid this, a brief reprise from the hell that swept through Port Royal.

No, he had orders.

The townspeople had assembled in motley groups, crowding the Fort's courtyard. Some had the decency to appear repulsed, others were wretchedly curious. Norrington fingered his sword and contemplated falling upon it. An easier end that would be, painless compared to the marred life he would be forced to lead from now on.

Governor Swann seemed to sense his temptation. He clapped his hand over the Commodore's arm.

"Steady man."

Norrington could have laughed at his words, laughed in Swann's blanched and sweat-stained face. But now was not the time for laughing.

"We might reconsider," Swann said. Norrington watched his mouth move but could only hear the drums.

"I am bound by the law," he responded and the words grated in his throat.

"As are we all," Swann finished. He flicked his tongue over his lips and leaned upon his walking stick, defeated. "Oh that it should come to this," he whispered. "Never…never…dear God." And he broke off.

Norrington was glad for his silence. He could not face his memories.

Brooding seas with thrashing ships. Nervous laughter. And two wide eyes that were brackish brown and clear all at once.

No, he would not remember.

"Look! Look!" A young boy was the first to herald the arrival of the prisoner, even before the drums. Ladies in wide-brimmed hats fluttered their fans and pretended to be appalled. A few scattered jeers matched the shrieks of the gulls.

"Steady man," Swann repeated, but he wobbled where he stood.

The marines forced a hole in the crowd, a gap just large enough to permit a thin woman to pass.

Bile coated Norrington's throat as he caught sight of her. She wore a shift, obscenely scanty and her dirty hair covered most of her face. He could still see her tiny mouth though, pressed into a frown that trembled every so often. She walked to the gallows.

He had known a man once, a man named Lieutenant Peter Trimble who came from Yorkshire and had served aboard the _Dauntless_.

Trimble was the sort of lad who seemed better suited with books instead of ships. Always sallow and sickly, always thin and tense. "Twitchy Trimble" they had called him, teasingly at first and then good naturedly. He was infamous for his cheeky grins and shrill laughter. On days off he took to the countryside to sketch birds and fauna. Norrington had counted him as a favorite, a close friend and confident.

And he had been a good officer, a damned good officer.

The woman now standing on the scaffold could have been his sister, they so resembled each other. But she was not.

This woman, Peggy Franks, had been Peter Trimble.

A tall man scrambled up the stairs of the gallows, a piece of parchment curled in his hand. Norrington recognized him as the notary, a clerk who sometimes worked at the Fort and read the sentences for condemned civilians.

Norrington's heart lurched within him, beating somewhere high up in his breast. Officers were expected to read the sentences of fellow soldiers. This was wrong.

He pushed through the crowd, ignoring Swann's panicked calls.

"Commodore! Please, Commodore! James!"

Norrington was halfway to the gallows now and the crowd parted quickly for him.

"He's gone mad," someone said. Others agreed.

Peggy Franks watched him, looking down through her hair. She shook her head and several strands fell away from her face. Norrington was now under the full heat of her gaze. Climbing up the stairs, he addressed the notary.

"An officer should read the sentence of another officer."

The notary stared at him. "But, sir…"

"It is only proper."

The man handed over the parchment and retreated. Norrington looked out over the courtyard, avoiding all eyes, especially hers.

"Margaret Franks," he read in a shockingly strong voice. "For impersonating an officer of the His Majesty's Royal Navy, you have been sentenced to be, on this day, hung by the neck until dead."

He paused and raised his eyes from the parchment. At the foot of the gallows, Lieutenants Groves and Gillette watched him, begged him silently. Norrington cleared his throat and choked. His soul had shriveled up inside him.

"May God have mercy on your soul."

The chattering of the gulls stopped as the noose was fitted over Peggy's neck.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This story will actually be focusing on "Peter" rather than "Peggy" and how his relationship formed with Norrington and his officers. I am stretching history here a little. Furthermore, I am certain it would have been quite impossible for a woman to become a Lieutenant without her superiors knowing. Women did however, sneak on as cabin boys and one woman even served as a marine. Peggy's punishment also many seem a bit harsh right now, but there is a reason for it. I hope you enjoyed the prologue. Thanks for reading and please, please leave feedback. I would love to hear your opinions. 


	2. Chapter One A Toast

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to the first chapter of "The Prickly Bush". I must say, I am completely stunned by the reviews this story has received. I never, never anticipated such an interest and I am happy to report, I will be continuing. This chapter is a short one and until I finish my other POTC fic "Rubicon" (which I will, quite soon) chapters will continue to be on the shorter side. I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read and those who reviewed, **NazgulQueen**, **Amanda**, **MageOfRoses**, **Atticus620**, **Jadelioness**, **Faith-Catherine**, and **BadLilBirdies**. Thank you all! I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.

**Chapter One A Toast**

"Huzzah! Huzzah!" James Norrington looked up from the paperwork before him. In swung his office door and heavy footfalls trod over the carpeted floor.

"Let us drink then!" Lieutenant Andrew Gillette announced. He had a bottle of wine in hand and waved it around with exaggerated gestures.

"To what?" Norrington asked as he pulled his chair around the front of the desk. Gillette promptly sat, ignoring Norrington's sigh as he went to find another chair.

Lieutenant Theodore Groves was next into the office, swaggering as usual beneath his brocade and blue.

"Engaged to be married," he said, pausing for his theatrics. With one hand, he swiped at an imaginary tear.

"Not yet." Norrington set a trio of chairs about the center of the office. Gillette struggled with the cork in the bottle.

"Then we must have something to celebrate." Lieutenant Peter Trimble came in last, looking as always like death warmed over with his pinched and parchment-colored face. He bowed to Norrington and snatched the bottle from Gillette's hand. "Came it o'er from France?"

Gillette pulled a face at the young man's accent and took back the bottle. "From Spain, my pet." The sobriquet was Gillette's playful way of establishing his authority, as he and Trimble were the same in age and standing.

"We might drink to Jack Sparrow," Norrington offered. Three pairs of wide eyes turned to him. "An infamous pirate no more," he added hastily.

"Agreed," Trimble said. "I wonder what it is that turns a man to piracy."

"Desperation?" Gillette grunted, working his fingers about the stubborn cork.

"Oh lah laddie! No!" Trimble was in the highest state of agitation now. He perched his hands on his hips like a saucy maid and jiggled his head. "A good man can be desperate and not turn to thieving. What's to say that evil begets evil?"

"What is to say that all pirates are evil?" Norrington countered mildly. "Understand, gentlemen, I offer them no excuse, certainly not me. But I believe that a few, a very few are not wholly corrupted by their crimes. Why, I once met a young boy caught sailing under the wrong flag. He had little knowledge of his misdeeds and quite innocently asked me what he had done wrong."

"Oh and are you some sort of thinker now?' Trimble raised a sandy brow. "A philosopher he is, gents!"

Norrington laughed, the sound rolling and deep, sprouting from the pit of his stomach. "But when a pirate is a pirate, justice must be swift…and unforgiving."

"Aye!" Trimble did a little jig with his feet tapping lightly along the floor.

"And he hasn't even had a drop to drink yet," Groves said. He pulled Trimble down into a chair. "Glasses please, James. I am not partial to drinking from the bottle."

Norrington passed around three plain wine glasses and kept one for himself. Gillette finally freed the cork and poured a generous amount of the dark libation into each glass. They sat in unusual silence then, Norrington mulling over his drink with a growing frown.

Images of Elizabeth Swann, radiant in the sun's strong light and lovely, crossed his mind. Norrington was no romantic, the thought of marriage first appearing as a looming black shape on his horizon, drawing ever near but no more defined. He found now that he might look forward to this softer life, especially with a woman like Elizabeth Swann by his side.

Norrington glanced up at his officers – his friends – each draped in some fashion over his respective chair.

Ivory-skinned Gillette had changed little since his arrival in the Caribbean five years ago. He was a cold-blooded fellow, used to the harsh, icy sea winds and frosty Ireland's shores. A long year it had taken him to adjust, but with his keen intelligence and wit, he fit easily in.

Groves had been in Port Royal the longest of them all and his dark skin showed the mark of the sun. He had a brilliant smile and conducted himself with a certain swagger that announced an air of confidence. Norrington had expected to lock horns with the somewhat haughty man, but had been surprised to find him good-natured.

And Trimble, darling Trimble with his high voice and lanky frame. At twenty-seven he seemed more a boy than a man, but had a quick enough mind. Norrington had known him for four years, meeting him when he served as a midshipman aboard the _Interceptor_. Trimble was loyal, almost fatally so, as when he blocked a privateer's blow from landing on Norrington's head. At twenty-six, Norrington had been quick to award him a lieutenancy.

Despite his often sickly appearance, Trimble proved to be hearty, a lad from Northern England with a thick Yorkshire accent. He had fallen into the group as the little brother, Norrington's unspoken favorite.

"Wine too heady, Commodore?" Gillette asked with a delicate smile that peeked over the rim of his glass.

"Not like Trimble here, eh?" Groves winked. He then repeated a much-beloved story, detailing the time when Trimble had first dined with the officers and was quite unable to hold his wine.

"I've ne'er been to Spain," Trimble said after Groves had finished. He stared dreamily out the window, already drifting with the wine. "Or France."

"Someday, my pet," Gillette sighed.

"Is it like Yorkshire? With moors and heather?"

"I have never been to Yorkshire," Norrington said.

"I don't intend to go back now, do I?" Trimble replied. "What with my Mam and Dad gone and-

"Oh, he is getting weepy!" Groves threw up one of his arms. Gillette gave Trimble his handkerchief.

"No, I'm not," Trimble huffed. And to prove his point, he rose and danced another jig of his.

"The wine has gone to his head," Groves lamented.

"I fear his manner is quite the same either way." Norrington hid his laughter behind his glass. Trimble fell back into his chair.

"Let us have a toast," Gillette raised his glass. "To your intended marriage, James."

Norrington shook his head and pushed Gillette's arm down. "She has not accepted my proposal."

"But her father has consented?"

"I shall meet with him shortly."

"She is a funny sort of creature," Trimble mused. "I can ne'er right figure her out."

"There will be no 'figuring' on your part, boy," Norrington said.

"I wasn't being bawdy," Trimble protested. He wrinkled his nose. "I only meant that she is a strange lass, like one of those painted up china dolls from the London the ladies fancy. All pretty on the outside, with little smiles and bright blue eyes. Yet there is much more too it, I think, much more than a fixed stare and smile. I can ne'er figure it."

"Enough now, my pet. You have made dear James anxious," Gillette said. "Then we shall drink to something else. To life!" He raised his glass once more.

"To health!" Groves bellowed.

Trimble hesitated a moment. "To love," he said at last. All four raised their glasses and drank deep.

**To Be Continued….

* * *

**

**Author's Note: **A few notes before I finish. Peggy Franks and Lieutenant Peter Trimble are the same person. When a scene or chapter is being told from Norrington's point of view (like this one) Peggy/Peter will be known and addressed as Peter, the only way the Navy boys know him. However, if a chapter or scene is told from Peggy/Peter's point of view, Peggy/Peter will be known as Peggy. Please let me know if anything strikes you as confusing and I will certainly try to amend the problem.

As you have noticed, Peggy/Peter speaks a little differently as she is from Yorkshire. I have refrained from writing out the accent, such as "I'll not be goin' doon to t'barn, aye?" which I think would be quite confusing for the reader and is a pain for me to write. So instead, I'll ask you to kindly use your imagination as far as her dialect is concerned.

The line "Came it o'er from France?" is a pun on another of my favorite Scottish folk songs "Cam ye o'er frae France?" And since I am an absolute nerd, you will notice many more references to traditional music.

Thanks so much for reading! Please, please review. Feedback makes my day!


	3. Chapter Two Cannon Fire

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter two of "The Prickly Bush". This chapter is mainly told from Peggy's point of view, therefore she will be known as "Peggy" not "Peter". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those who took the time to review **Mayhem O'Malley**, **NazgulQueen**, and** MageOfRoses**. Thank you all so much! I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.

**Chapter Two Cannon Fire**

"What's your name, mate?" The prisoner leaned against the bars of his cell, a dangerous leer hanging from his lips.

"No business of yours," Peggy said and glanced at the whelp. His name was Thomas Lankin, a local ne'er do good who had sealed his fate after a tavern brawl had turned murderous.

"Looking like a lordie, you are," Thomas said, his breath hissing through the gaps in his teeth. "Where you from? Are you a Scottish lad?"

"Yorkshire. Now hold your damn tongue." Peggy gazed out the grimy window cut high in the prison's walls. A slice of moonlight pierced the ebony sky and made the stars sharp. From somewhere on the walls of Fort Charles, she could hear Commodore Norrington conversing with Governor Swann.

She sighed and jammed her hands in her pockets, rocking back and forth in her shoes. After taking leave Gillette and Groves, she had gone down to the prison to see that all was in order. Norrington worried after Sparrow it seemed, half-fearing that a plan of escape might be concocted within the pirate's mind. Peggy begrudged the task but obeyed, flattering herself with the false notion that he trusted the duty to her alone. And perhaps it had been for the best, for she found the guards slumbering and the prisoners chatting away.

Now the two sentries stood tall and stiff by the door. Peggy kept her eye on them, vowing to stand there for a until more reliable men might be sent to guard the place. After all, she had only her tiny room above the tavern to go home to.

"Yorkshire," Thomas said. "Never been to Yorkshire meself. What's it like?"

"Quiet."

"Just asking is all. Don't see what harm there is in such a question."

Peggy's pressed her thin lips together and removed her hands from her pockets, folding her arms across her chest. The neck cloth she used to bind her breasts itched terribly.

"It's like all of England, if you must know."

"And how did a man like yourself come here?"

"How does any man get where he is?" she countered, her nerves bristling with every word.

Thomas clucked his tongue. "Impatient man you are."

Peggy didn't reply. The air had cooled some, heralding a storm. A heavy fog fell over Port Royal.

"Ah, smell that." Thomas sniffed like a mongrel. "That's the sea for you."

"It stinks. All I smell is rotting fish and piss." Peggy wrinkled her nose and suddenly felt like gagging.

"Not the talk of a gentleman now."

"I am no gentleman," she said and licked her lips, tasting the last of Gillette's fine Spanish wine.

"You're an officer."

"And you're a fool, Thomas. Poor sod."

"At least I have you talking now and I think I can recollect your name. The soldiers and sailors all call you 'Twitchy Trimble'. Why is that?" Thomas scratched his head and tugged at the ragged ribbon that held his ponytail in place.

Peggy stamped her foot on the floor, slick with some unknown substance.

"You don't look like an overly nervous fellow to me."

"Quiet."

Thomas grumbled, turning to pace about his cell. "You know, I was just thinking. I am liable to die tomorrow and I've never known true love. Have you known true love, Twitchy?"

Taking her pistol in hand, Peggy slammed the butt of it against the bars of the cell. The clatter and clang made the prison echo. The two guards dared to glance at her. Thomas chuckled.

"The next time I put a bullet in your skull, you hear?" she growled. Thomas shrugged.

"What's wrong?" Thomas asked. He was leaning against the bars again. "Your skin looks like milk gone sour."

"I thought you said I looked like a blithe little lordie," she said.

"Aye, but not a pretty lordie. Twitchy Trimble, what does that stand for again?"

"I never told you."

In truth, the nickname had come from her first reaction to the guns. Whenever they were fired, she would leap a foot into the air, unaccustomed to the sound and the effect cannonballs had on flesh. Peggy smiled shrewdly at Thomas. Of course, she would never tell _him _that.

"They call me that because the soldiers twitch for fear whenever I draw near. Ordered a fair share of lashings I have. Three this week, in fact."

She glanced down the corridor at the two guards, but they only looked straight ahead, their eyes glassy. Good.

Lashings were common in the navy. Peggy had never shied from dolling out such a punishment, though not quite as frequently she had boasted. Of course, she would never tell him that either.

"Why did you join the navy?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because I wanted to die."

"Why?"

"Because life is unfair."

"That it is. See, you're still alive!"

They stood silent for a moment until Thomas finally yawned.

"What's the hour?"

"Two quarters past midnight." Peggy looked for the moon, hoping to judge by it's height in the heavens. But fog had shifted over it and mist hissed over the Fort.

"And how many hours do I have to live?"

"Depends."

Thomas' bloodshot eyes narrowed. "I don't understand, Twitchy."

"Well." And now a smirk crawled over her face, lifting the corner of her mouth. "I could put you out of your misery now, if you like." She began to load her pistol, shoving the ramrod down its steely throat.

"You'll not blow my bloody brains out!" Thomas fair shrieked. Peggy chuckled. Apparently the jest was lost on him, but not her. It may have been cruel, she realized, but the bastard had gutted a fine young cobbler's apprentice. He deserved to sweat and shake in his boots a little.

"Why not?" She had the pistol loaded now and fitted her finger near the trigger. "I would rather be shot than hanged. Less painful."

"It will only be a momentary pang," Thomas said. He had paled right down to his lips. "Only a momentary pang if I swing from the noose."

"Who says? Have you every talked to a man that's been hanged?"

Thomas could not answer. A high whistle rent the air followed by a thunder clap.

"Good Christ!" One of the guards cried.

Peggy rested her pistol to the side and hoisted herself up on the windowsill so she could better see out into the courtyard. A cannonball coursed through the ebony sky and struck the Fort wall.

"Dammy," she whispered.

"Cannon fire! Men to arms!"

The two guards were fair dancing now.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!" The smaller one chorused. He face was pasty. "What orders?"

"Stay here." Her hands trembled as she snatched up the pistol and made for the stairs.

"But Lieutenant-

"Stay by your post or I'll have you both lashed till your guts fall out!"

They obeyed. Peggy scrambled up the stairs, Thomas' high cackle ringing in her ears along with the groaning guns. Out in the courtyard all was smoke and chaos. Half-dressed officers emerged from the building. A burly midshipman ran straight into her.

"What's all this?" he asked her, his eyes bleary with rum and sleep.

Another volley hit the Fort and rocks showered down on them. Peggy dove but had no time to push the midshipman out of the way. His face was smashed by a brick and he collapsed, groaning on the cobblestones.

"Cannon fire," Peggy informed him breathlessly, then hurried up to the walls.

* * *

The ground shook beneath Norrington's feet as a cannon ball careened into the wall, smashing stone to powder and smoke.

"Return fire!" he shouted. The men swarmed around the guns. A few harried minutes past before the report rang in his ears. The guns jolted and rolled back, the shot soaring down to meet the black ship perched in the harbor.

All held their breath, hoping to see the hull splintered or the mast brought down to the waves. But the cannon balls bounced against the water, just shy of the ship.

"Reload! Reload!" The command rippled down the wall, cut off as a second volley struck the Fort. One young gunner toppled back and fell into the courtyard below. Norrington looked over his shoulder just in time to see the man crash into the cobblestones. Someone gripped his arm.

"Commodore, sir." And then Trimble was standing there, sweating and shaking but resolute. "What orders, sir?"

Norrington withheld a sigh of relief. The arrival of any familiar and trusted officer seemed like a Godsend.

"Their in the longboats!" Someone shouted. All attention was turned to the harbor, where like slithering sea serpents, the pirates headed for shore in longboats. Norrington glanced at the docks and the wide street nearby that led directly into the heart of Port Royal.

"Take a company to the harbor," he said to Trimble. "They are not to enter the town. Keep them by the docks."

Trimble looked doubtfully at the shrieking pirates. "Aye, sir," he said at last and bounded away like a young hare, nearly knocking over Governor Swann who was huddled against the wall.

"Suicide," Swann whispered as he watched Trimble go but Norrington had already turned back to the guns.

**To Be Continued…

* * *

**

**Author's Note: **I know that Peggy may seem a bit different in this chapter, but that is because I have decided to portray her as a classic 18th century officer, which means she wouldn't necessarily be friendly or interested in those who were considered her inferiors.

Thomas Lankin's name I have taken from another murderer immortalized in the folk song "Long Lankin".

Thanks so much for reading! Please take the time to review. I love all feedback.


	4. Chapter Three Orders

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter three of "The Prickly Bush". This is more of an action-oriented chapter, though I will be filling in Peggy's background shortly. I would like to thank those that read the last chapter and those who reviewed, **Kitty**, **bizzy125**, **BadLilBirdies**, **Amanda**, **Jadelioness**, **Random Authoress**, and **MageOfRoses**. Thank you all so much! Feedback always puts a smile on my face and makes my day. I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.

**Chapter Three Orders**

A long, wide street led from the center of Port Royal down to the docks. Peggy trotted her men along that very road, shoving them into two columns with shouts and threats.

"You stupid arse," she growled and knocked one dallying young lad about the head. "Keep up, by God, keep up."

The soldier muttered some curse and picked up his pace. Peggy sighed. Officers were both mother hens and snarling lions. At times she would cluck and usher them into line with kind, pleasing words. And other times she would shriek and rant and threaten to shoot them all dead where they stood.

"Move along now," she said. "Down to the waterfront, all of you or it's the lash." Threats seemed handier at this particular moment.

The cannons were still roaring as they hurried down the street, long shadows leaping from their feet and slinking along the walls of storehouses. Before them lay two docks jetting out into the ebony waters of the sea.

"Whys we going down to the docks?" one man asked stupidly. Peggy curbed her tongue behind clenched teeth. A second solider supplied a breathless response.

"Orders," he said and that put an end to all questions. Common soldiers and sailors might not understand much except orders. Orders were out of everyone's hands, except a select few who reigned in the blissful state of high-command. Peggy herself had surrendered to the rule of orders long ago, receiving them without a word or thought or complaint.

Though now it seemed like a cruel thing, she mused and her tiny feet tapped out a tattoo in the gutters as she jogged along. Death wasn't meant to be dispatched by a few lofty officers. And no man certainly deserved to die in the middle of the street at night or below the black waves as it might be.

She remembered suddenly what wretched Thomas Lankin had said about life not being fair. And she remembered how she wanted to die.

Perhaps then, this was a little fair?

And perhaps if she died, she would see dear David again.

Peggy exhaled sharply and drew the column up at the end of the street, facing the beach. An old tavern and storehouse flanked them. Seven longboats pushed towards the shore, groaning and shifting under the weight of a dozen pirates each.

The soldiers began to tremble then. Sweat coated their faces, leaving a filthy film on their skin. Peggy snarled and paced before the column.

"You will fight, God damn you. You will stand and fight. Any man that breaks the line will be shot." And she fingered her loaded pistol as a warning. "Now into lines, two lines, that is. Flanks anchored against the tavern and storehouse."

They obeyed. Two lines crossed the muddy street, a thin barrier between the center of Port Royal and the pirates. Peggy ignored the shaking in her legs.

They were too few. Dear God, they were two few.

Screams issued from the docks, bouncing off the stony storehouse and tavern. The pirates had just about brought their longboats up to the shore. Peggy squinted and saw they had all manner of weaponry with them, rifles, pistols, swords and even a stray grapple or two. Smoke clouded her vision and for a moment, the pirates seemed to disappear behind the cloud of it. Someone shouted from behind her.

"Lieutenant Trimble! Peter!"

Peggy whipped about. Lieutenant Groves was coming down the street with a column of his own. A shuddering sigh slipped past her dry lips.

"Theodore, by God!" she called. Groves touched the top of his hat.

"Only two lines?" he asked, surveying the soldiers.

"Only two," she replied. "How many have you?"

"Enough for one, maybe." His keen eyes narrowed in thought. "Shall I have them form up behind your boys?"

Peggy glanced back towards the waterfront and saw that the cloud had lifted. The pirates raised their oars overhead and shrieked.

"No," she said quickly. "It makes little sense to. Take your men back up the hill. If my lines are broken," she paused and cleared her throat. Groves nodded. "If my lines are broken, your men might act as a last barrier. Get to it now! We have not much time."

"Good lad, Trimble," Groves said sorrowfully. "Good lad."

And then he swung his column about and headed back up the hill to the town square. Peggy faced her company once more. Fear tightened their faces.

"First line fires when I give the order," she said. "Then drop to your knees and let the second line have a go. We will get off as many volleys as we can, eh? Wait for my bloody order, though."

"Come on! Forward you rats!" A guttural cry announced the pirates' arrival onshore. They dragged their boats up to the beach and sprang onto the sand. Peggy glanced at the front line.

"Steady, boys."

The pirates bottle-necked between the two docks and began to jostle against each other. Peggy unsheathed her sword and looked to her uniform. The jacket had the blue of the sky in it and the gold of the sun along the facings. She adjusted her clothing, straightening her hat on her head. There was no shame in leaving a smart looking corpse.

Shots rang out. Peggy ducked, expecting a volley to come sallying forth from the beach. But three of her soldiers had lowered their muskets and fired, panicked by the wretched shrieks of their opponents.

"Damn you to hell!" Peggy screamed. The pirates were halfway up the beach. She raised her sword. "Make ready! Take aim! Fire!"

The volley was uneven and struck only the foremost of the ragged band. A few fell back but most pressed onward. The first line dropped to their knees in the billowing gun smoke and reloaded. Peggy looked to the second line.

"Make ready! Take aim! Fire!"

The crackle of musketry spilt the air. A handful of pirates stumbled, none seemed to fall. The first line had not yet reloaded. With growing horror Peggy realized that they had little time.

"Fix bayonets!" she yelled. The clank and clatter of metal sounded throughout the ranks as hands groped for bayonets. Peggy's arm shook horribly, but she took aim at the tallest pirate and fired. The shot hit him directly in the skull. She did not see him fall.

And then at once the wave was upon them. Bodies clashed and crashed into one another. Steel glittered, wet with blood and sticky with gore. One young lad thrust his bayonet into the gut of a burly pirate. The scoundrel grunted, bringing his cutlass down and striking the boy's lips off. A high-pitched scream shredded Peggy's ears as she watched him fall. The men standing on the second line began to waver.

"Stay! Stay!" she screeched, but they were already withdrawing. She drove her sword into the throat of a pirate. The man emitted a faint gurgle before tumbling backwards.

"And it'll be you lot next!" Peggy threatened her soldiers. "Stand and fight like men."

They obeyed, the second line surging forward to deliver blows at the endless surge of pirates. Moment by moment the melee thickened, bloodied by bodies and wounded men that lay shrieking upon the grimy cobblestones. Peggy felt unusual fear prick her heart. Not one of the pirates lay stretched over the ground. How could that be?

More pirates were on the beach now, crossing the waterfront with fresh howls and red tongues lapping at the putrid air. Soldiers fell against one another and panic infected the fighting.

"Help! Please God, help!" one wounded man was crying, holding his battered leg. Peggy stepped forward once more to block a blow dealt by a skinny little man. The pirate stumbled back into his comrades, cursing.

"Navy dog!" He lifted his arm to deliver a successive thrust. Peggy leapt to the side and slipped, falling over a wounded soldier who spat up crimson and foam. The scrawny pirate began to elbow his way through the line.

"I'll dirty that pretty uniform with blood yet," he said. A gasp choked Peggy and she threw up her arm. The pirate was swinging his blade down towards her…

And then there was a sudden blast of cannon and the world shook. Rocks fell from the sky or so it seemed. Peggy looked up in time to see the corner of the tavern blown away by a cannon ball. The stones rained down upon them and pain shot through her skull. Dazed, she tried to rise. Something warm licked her cheek. Tears? No blood. One of the shattered stones had caught her right temple.

The clash subsided for a moment as men scrambled to their feet through the haze of dust. Peggy blinked. The scrawny pirate was nowhere to be seen…and both lines had been broken.

"Close the gap!" she ordered. "Draw together men, before they break through-

But the pirates were already climbing over the crumbled bodies and the remaining men panicked, letting the plunderers pass by unchallenged.

Peggy panted, blood coating her lips. The pirates raced up the street into the center of the Port Royal.

* * *

Groves had placed his line in the center of the square with their backs to an old well. All about were shuttered shops and houses, black looking against the flames that gnawed the waterfront. Far-off screams road the night wind and Groves felt his heart slamming against his ribs. The men stood with blank eyes, panting and wiping sweat from their brows.

"Easy," he said and paced behind the line. "Easy, gents." They settled beneath the soothing tone of his voice, hands clenched over muskets. One private ripped a paper cartridge with his teeth and poured the powder into the pan. Groves checked his loaded pistol.

He had come late to the Fort, finding Norrington standing like Ares upon the battlements with the cannons all raging.

"Go down to the waterfront," the newly-crowned Commodore had said at once. "I sent Trimble along that way, dear God."

And he looked to the side for a moment.

"The lad went?" Groves had asked.

"Yes," Norrington replied. The sky was alight with fire behind him. "Go help him, Theodore, for God's sake." He turned back to the cannons after that and Groves had turned to the waterfront with a small company of marines.

And now he stood waiting, ready to strike out a hand and pull Trimble from peril.

Groves stiffened. From somewhere down by the docks, Peter shouted.

"Make ready! Take aim! Fire!"

Two volleys of musketry popped and faded into drifting smoke. The pirates were howling like heathens.

It wouldn't be long now.

Trimble shouted orders, indistinct orders that punctured the air. Poor lad, he thought. The boy had been in the army for a bit and had some experience fighting in line formation. But the marines were accustomed to the slick decks of ships and tight corners that required a soldier to be cunning, not mindless. No doubt they were giving Trimble a time and a half, especially with a pack of pirates pressing against them.

The steady report of the cannons continued on. A rumble sounded from the waterfront and then all was silenced. Groves slipped his sweaty hand over his sword-hilt.

Worry climbed up his spine in the form of a shiver. No longer did he hear Trimble's throaty cries or commands. Had the boy gone under?

"Retreat! Retreat!" Trimble screamed and Groves felt the cool rush a relief course through him.

The soldiers shuffled nervously.

"Steady," he said, a threatening edge to his voice. Boots beat along the cobblestones and a whole stream of pirates surged into the square with soldiers in panicked retreat amongst them. Trimble was the last of them all, loading his pistol as he ran. Blood poured from his brow.

He stopped, whirled about and shot into the throng of pirates. But in his haste, Trimble had forgotten to remove his ramrod from the barrel of the pistol. Black powder spewed forth and the ramrod flew like an arrow, piercing a man's leg. Trimble threw down his pistol, now utterly useless.

"For God's sake Groves!" he hollered as more pirates spilled into the square. "Fire, man, fire!"

Groves gave the order and the line fired. But still the pirates filled the square, some branching off and dashing down the darkened alleys. Trimble's men ran helter-skelter and no command or plea would bring them to order.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I did some research on the position of lieutenant in the navy and what exactly it entailed. I was able to come up with tons of information as to what a lieutenant would do onboard a ship but not onshore. Therefore, Peggy's actions in this chapter may be leaning closer to the army. Please forgive this inaccuracy.

Thanks so much for reading! Please review and share your thoughts with me. All feedback is welcome and highly appreciated. Chapter Four will be up shortly.


	5. Chapter Four The Widow

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter four of "The Prickly Bush". I would like to thank those that read the last chapter and those who reviewed, **Random Authoress, DemonicSymphony **and **MageofRoses**. Thank you all so much. I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.

**Chapter Four The Widow**

Peggy thought she might fall asleep where she stood. Her eyelids fluttered once and she cringed as the bold morning sun sliced at her eyes. The air was heavy, warm and still stinking of gun powder. Moans sounded, mingling with the cries of the wounded. She forced herself to stand upright.

"A fine mess," Groves mumbled from somewhere by her elbow. She nodded, ignoring the little black spots that danced before her eyes.

"Damned pirates."

"Bloody hell." Groves removed his hat and scratched at his wig. Before them lay a row of injured soldiers all propped up in front of a tavern wall. The pirates had left Port Royal bleeding and after the siege had ended, Peggy had struggled to gather together what was left of her company.

Not much, she thought sourly. A good number of the men had been killed and already she spotted some that would not last the day.

"What orders?" Groves asked. His eyes were bleary and a night's growth of stubble cast a shadow across his cheeks.

Peggy looked instinctively toward the still smoking Fort that loomed to their right. "Don't know. I haven't heard anything from above, not a peep. We should report though, see what is to be done."

"We need help," Groves gestured at the soldiers. Peggy pressed her palm to the bloody knot decorating her right temple. She felt as though she might retch.

"I know. Has anyone called for the surgeon?"

Groves shrugged hopelessly. Behind him the town lay smoldering and civilians were running about like scattered geese, desperately searching for a way back to their flock.

"You are still bleeding, Peter." Groves pointed to her head.

"Never mind." Peggy managed to find her handkerchief tucked inside her coat and she took off her hat for a moment, binding the cloth about her brow. "Do you think the commodore will have something to say about this?" she asked. "After all, I was charged to hold the waterfront and keep my lines intact."

"I wouldn't worry about that now."

Peggy's legs trembled and suddenly the muddy cobblestone street rose up beneath her bottom. She sat on the ground, her legs stretched out before her. Groves was frowning.

"You need a doctor."

"Nah," she mumbled, swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat. "All's well."

Years of keeping her gender a secret had taught her many things. Doctors were to be avoided, first and foremost. Any man that made his living by poking about a person's body had to be kept at arm's length. They were too inquisitive in her mind and curiosity only begat suspicion.

Groves turned about and squinted. "Benton's coming, God be praised."

Peggy groaned and managed to get to her feet. Racing down the hill was a tall man with leather breeches and a brown frock coat. From the distance he could be mistaken for a dandy, but Peggy knew better. Doctor Harry Benton was the best Port Royal had to offer. She sighed in relief.

Benton wasn't the sort of pushy man that insisted on inspecting every wound. Many a time she had been able to avoid his ministrations and even managed to befriend him. Potential enemies were best kept close and molded into potential allies.

"Hey ho!" the Doctor called. He stopped short by the row of wounded men. "What a fix!"

"Stop complaining," Peggy scolded. She placed her shaky hands on her hips. "Plenty of work for you, Doctor, now get to it!"

"Yes, your majesty." And he mock-bowed. "I have come from the Fort, if you care. Norrington thought you might require some assistance. He is rather disturbed that neither of you have bothered to report."

"We had to make ourselves presentable first," Groves said. He was walking with Benton along the line of injured. Benton kneeled by one man in particular that moaned loudly.

"They've killed me!" the soldier cried. Benton shook his head and lifted the man's hand which covered a bloody spot on his gut.

"A little gouge it is," Benton said. "You'll survive. Lie still now."

The soldier's brow furrowed. "But…but…"

Benton moved on, ignoring the pushy private. He frowned at a young lad who lay very still.

"This one's gone already, my boys."

Groves sighed and ran his hand over his brow. Peggy shifted. Grief and death never sat well with her, never. She had learned to flee from sorrow over the years or swallow it away until it became nothing more than a tight knot in her chest. Weeping over a dead body only brought pain…and memories.

Benton removed his coat, laying it over the dead soldier's face. He made the sign of the cross, then moved on.

Down the line they went, mostly in silence. Benton would stop and speak to a soldier once in a while, or Peggy would scold a private for squirming under the doctor's care.

Hypocrite, she thought with a wry smile. Be grateful it isn't you.

She lived in perpetual fear for a good part of her life, terrified that one slip or whisper would reveal her identity. It was a nasty business keeping one's sex under wraps. In fact, she had quite expected Norrington to discover the truth at first. He was no dolt. But like most men, he had his mind fixed on other things. Glory, duty, honor. He never looked at her twice.

A grand charade it was, like a play put on in a fancy theater. Peggy wasn't sure if she enjoyed her role and she wasn't the least bit curious as to how it would all end.

"Have you heard anything by way of casualties?" Groves asked Benton after a while.

"Not a thing," the Doctor said. He patted a corporal with a bloody mouth on the wrist and straightened up. "Too soon, I wager. Norrington was harried when I saw him. Didn't say much at all."

"No news is good news," Groves recited. He folded his arms, falling into deep discussion with Benton. Peggy, however, was distracted.

All her nerves bristle at once. The damned private with the tiny stomach wound was still shrieking, moaning now as he clutched his gut.

"Help, I'm bleeding! I'm bleeding!"

She shifted her jaw. Oh, for God's sake.

"We must get the wounded onto carts," Benton was saying. Peggy could scarce make out his words over the hollering. "We must-

"Help me! Jesus! Help me!"

"Shut your mouth!" Peggy screamed in a raspy voice. And suddenly, she whirled around and struck the private right across his pudgy face. He fell back, wild-eyed, sweaty but silent. In fact, everything had gone silent. Groves and Benton stared at her. Their eyes threatened to gnaw through her flesh. Peggy rolled her shoulders.

She had gone too far.

It happened on occasion, on rare occasions when her temper snapped beneath the weight of extreme stress or fear. After all, how could she be expected to rein in her emotions at every moment?

The private trembled. His lips parted as his breath came pouring out in short, ragged gasps. Peggy's face felt hot and she turned her gaze to the waterfront, just in time to catch a quick, cooling breeze.

"I'm sorry lad," she said at length. Her mind fumbled wildly, searching for a solution that might remedy the injury and dull the memory of it. "Have any of you a bit of rum?" she asked. One soldier stepped forward. He fumbled with a little leather flask.

"Give it here now."

The soldier handed it over reluctantly. His eyes lingered on the wooden cork for a long minute. Peggy passed the flask over to the wounded man with a forced smile.

"Here lad, drink up. I cannot say that it'll help much, maybe fog your mind a little and chase the pain away, eh? But any liquor does a man good. Here now, lad, here. Drink up. I am sorry, lad."

The private did as he was told. Rum dribbled down his chin and lay in dark droplets on his chest.

"No harm down now. Isn't that right, lad?" she asked. He nodded and made to hand back the flask.

"Keep it." Peggy shoved it back into his grasp, despite the protesting groans of the flask's owner. "And you keep calm," she warned the annoyed fellow. "You'll have enough rum in your day, I wager."

And so the unpleasantness was smoothed over by a sympathetic hand. Peggy turned back to Groves and Benton with a shrug.

"Sorry about that, gents."

"Quite all right," Benton said softly.

"Never mind." Groves rocked back and forth in his shoes.

"The wounded must be carted out," Benton continued. He flicked his pink tongue along his lips. "I cannot tend to them here."

"We might send someone up the Fort," Groves said. "If any wagon or cart can be spared, it'll be at your service, doctor."

"Much obliged." Benton bowed his head. "We had best get to it." He turned and looked over the row of wounded. "Lord knows how much time is given to us."

Peggy jammed her hands in her pocket, struggling to ignore the exhaustion that swam in her head and blurred her vision. She wobbled and Groves caught her elbow. Benton frowned.

"And you, boy," he said, wagging his finger in her direction. "You ought to-

"Lieutenant, lieutenant, sir," a faded voice interrupted Benton and Peggy was silently grateful. If only she could make it up to the Fort and dress her wound, then all this business of doctors might be avoided.

"Lieutenant, sir." A small, balding man ambled up. A woman leaned heavily on his arm and every once in a while she groaned. The side of her face was covered by a rag.

"My wife, sir," the man continued. "She's been badly burned." He looked about in a lost manner. "Where…where…?"

"Up to the Fort," Benton answered for Groves. He stepped forward and peered beneath the rag, cringing. "You'll find several surgeons there seeing to the wounded. But I cannot say how long you will have to wait."

The man's lower lip trembled. His wife sagged. "But certainly…she's been badly hurt…certainly…."

Peggy elbowed her way between Benton and Groves. "I'll go with 'em," she offered brusquely. "We cannot shilly-shally all day. You'll have your wagons, doctor. Come along." And she beckoned at the small man with an annoyed flick of her wrist. He pulled his wife closer and followed Peggy up the street.

"And take care of yourself, Trimble," Groves called after her. She waved her hand once, but did not look back.

"You know, you lads could've done more," the man said after they had walked in silence for a while. He paused for a moment, setting his wife down on the side of the old well in the town square. Peggy glanced over her shoulder at him.

"Keep up. I have half my soldiers bleeding to death back there."

"As opposed to my wife who is just fine," he replied. "You've never been married, have you, lieutenant?"

Peggy felt something burst inside her, a cracked dam that sent tears streaming down her cheeks. She wept then and cursed herself silently all the while. The man looked up at her.

"I am sorry, sir. I…I meant no offense, truly!"

Blast! Peggy wiped furiously at her tears. No one knew she was a widow, only dear David who lay tucked in the earth. Dear David….

She managed to compose herself some. "Come now. Keep up or I'll leave you both here."

The man did not protest. Once more, he picked up his wife and slowly they made their way to the Fort. Outside there was a good deal of commotion. Peggy stopped just in time to see Gillette running towards her.

"Trimble, where the hell have you been?" he asked, seeming more frightened than annoyed.

"With Groves and Benton, by the waterfront," she said. Gillette halted before her, his shoes sliding against the wet cobblestones.

"A rotten thing it is," he panted. "A rotten, wretched thing."

"What's this now?" Peggy asked. Gillette clutched her arm.

"Elizabeth Swann has been kidnapped."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, a little bit of Peggy's background was revealed there and I promise there is more to come. Thanks for reading! Please take the time to review and share your thoughts with me. The next chapter will be up shortly. 


	6. Chapter Five The Alcove

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter five of "The Prickly Bush". I am so sorry for the delay in posting. I was bogged down with studying for final exams for a while. Special thanks goes out to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **xShadowCatx**, **Rokhal**, **Bizzy125**, **Juggerknot**, and **DemonicSymphony**. Thank you all so much. I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I clam no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.

**Chapter Five The Alcove**

Norrington had a headache. It gnawed at his temples and stretched around to the back of his skull. He tapped the tip of his quill pen on the map laid upon his desk, trying to ignore the pain. Swann paced behind him.

"I should never have left her alone," the Governor said in a low voice. Norrington glanced briefly over his shoulder and saw Swann dab at his sweaty upper lip with a handkerchief. "I should have never left Elizabeth."

"Do not be so quick to condemn," Norrington said with a grimace. He was fully prepared to take the blame for Elizabeth's kidnapping and the surprise attack on Port Royal. And he would have been embarrassed by their lack of preparations…had he not felt so desperately afraid for Elizabeth.

Several officers had joined him in a small alcove tucked in the side of the Fort. They were somber-looking, tired, with powder stains on their breeches and hands. Wounded soldiers were carried by on make-shift stretchers or rolled past in carts. Norrington wanted to stop his ears against their moans.

"What is to be done?" Swann asked at length. He turned about and stood by Norrington's side.

"Allow me but a moment, sir," the Commodore said, buying time to find an answer he did not have. Fortunately, Gillette and Trimble came bounding up into the alcove, a blessed distraction.

Trimble saluted rather shakily, his long hand pulling at the cloth bound about his brow. Norrington noticed fresh blood leaking out of what looked to be a hastily concealed wound. He straightened and cleared his throat, beckoning Trimble forward with a twitch of his index finger.

"Report."

Trimble sighed and shuddered all at once. "Not much to say, sir, not much. My lines broke. I am sorry, sir, damn it all. My poor boys were butchered where they stood."

Governor Swann uttered a small cry, pressing his hand to his lips once more. Trimble sniffed and continued as soon as Norrington nodded.

"Groves managed to get off one volley before they reached the square, sir. Only one volley. By God, sir, they fought like demons."

The young man trembled, Norrington noticed. He tried to smile, but his mouth froze and the muscles about his lips tightened. Instead, he waved his hand once dismissively.

"Very well, Lieutenant, very well. I am sure you did all you could."

"Aye, sir." Trimble seemed more than a little relieved. He leaned on Gillette's steady shoulder and pressed a hand to his breast. "I am sorry, sir. Dammy, never expected it to be so bad, sir."

"Never mind that now," Norrington said huskily, his voice failing him for a moment as he thought of the dead lads lying ruined and broken in the streets. Oh, their poor mothers.

He swallowed once and then looked up at his officers. "We have a dire and pressing situation to attend to, gentlemen. The governor's daughter, Miss Elizabeth Swann, has been kidnapped and taken from Port Royal."

There was a general murmur amongst the officers. Trimble glanced at Gillette.

"So you were telling the truth, eh?" he said.

"I do not think this is the time, Lieutenant, for the settling of wagers," Norrington said.

Trimble turned about. "Oh no, sir and a right horrible thing it is too. Forgive me, sir. I never expected such news."

Norrington nodded testily. "There has been no note of ransom left behind, no offer for an exchange. I fear we must assume the very worst and consider that Miss Swann was taken for more sordid purposes."

Governor Swann looked as though he would faint. Norrington reached back and gripped his shoulder.

"Steady now, sir," he said. "We have no cause for such dread just yet. Be assured that the Royal Navy will recover your child and see to it that her captors swing from the gallows."

Swann, however, did not seem quite so comforted.

"But how should we find her?" he asked in a breathless voice. His skin had the color of cream tinged with a fair shade of green. Norrington tightened his grasp on the man's shoulder.

"We will establish their most likely course," he said, "assuming that no person has information pertaining to the whereabouts of a suspected port." Here he paused and glanced about the alcove, hoping, praying that one officer might offer up some bit of knowledge. They stayed silent, except for Trimble who was in deep discussion with a private.

"Lieutenant Trimble." Norrington folded his hands behind his backs. Trimble raised his head.

"Your pardon, sir," he said softly, eyes bent on the stones beneath his feet. "Wagons for the wounded, sir, we need wagons or carts. There are a fair number of wounded men still by the waterfront, sir, with their lives bleeding away. Might we have some wagons, sir? They need transport."

Norrington cleared his throat once, his muscles contracting against his tightly tied stock. "Of course, Trimble. Arrange what you will."

"Thank you, sir." And Trimble seemed truly grateful. Once more he turned to the private. An order was issued, a quiet, fleeting thing that sent the soldier hurrying from the alcove.

"How many?" Swann asked, coming out of somber stupor.

"Sir?" Trimble looked from Swann to Norrington. "I..I don't know, sir. A dozen, mayhap. I could not count."

Swann shook his head. "Dear God."

Norrington paced before his desk, trying to shake off the horrid fear that made his heart slam against his ribs. Sweat beaded on his brow.

"Gentlemen," he said at last and was pleased to hear that his voice remained composed. "The matter lies before us then. Where do we sail?"

He waited for some response, searched for their eyes and found only nervous faces. Trimble alone met his gaze.

"I don't know, sir," the boy said. "It's an awful thing, it is. We have no heading."

"Then we must find one," Norrington insisted. Trimble sighed.

"You can search all day for a needle in the hay and find naught in the end."

Norrington rolled back his shoulders. Such pessimism from his own men was not encouraging.

Trimble shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose it's a chance we'll be taking then, though I am not overly fond of chances. It seems that-"

But he did not bother to finish. Will Turner dashed up the alcove steps, hatchet and sword in hand.

"They've taken her, they've taken Elizabeth." The lad was wild-eyed and harried and he gazed at Norrington with panicked desperation. The officers standing about him grumbled. Norrington sensed their annoyance, the way they shifted and pressed themselves against the walls with darkening glances. He dropped his gaze to the map before him and picked up his quill.

"Mr. Murtogg, remove this man."

The red-haired private stepped forward and seized Turner's elbow, but the boy roughly shook him off.

"We have to hunt them down. We must save her."

"And where do you purpose we start?" Swann swung about. "If you have any information concerning the whereabouts of my daughter, please, share it."

Turner fell silent. Private Murtogg, however, did not.

"That Jack Sparrow," he said timidly, fingering his musket. "He talked about the _Black Pearl_."

"Mentioned it is more what he did," another soldier named Mullroy put in.

Turner shifted his weight. "Ask him where it is. Make a deal with him, he could lead us to it."

Norrington raised his eyes and glanced over Turner's shoulder at Trimble. "Lieutenant, you visited the prison last evening. What do you make of Sparrow?"

"He's a half-wit, sir," Trimble replied. "Not worth bothering with, if you ask me, sir. I barely spoke with him myself."

"If you held no conversation with him," Turner interrupted, "how can you be so sure of his idiocy?"

Trimble bristled. "One can easily tell a moron from a man, boy," he said and his eyes roved over Turner. "Very easily."

Turner stiffened, his jaw shifting. Norrington stepped around the desk.

"The pirates who invaded this Fort left Sparrow locked in his cell, ergo, they are not his allies."

"Sparrow does not have to be an ally of theirs to know where the _Pearl _makes berth," Turner said. Gillette grumbled loudly.

"We have not established whether or not the _Black Pearl _attacked this Fort at all, have we?" he said, tilting his head forward to gaze down his long nose at Turner. "It sounds like a fairy story, if you should ask me. As real as a mermaid."

"Then perhaps you had best ask Lieutenant Trimble," Turner said. Gillette raised his ginger brows. Trimble narrowed his eyes.

"What's all this?" he huffed. Turner fixed him with a steady stare.

"Where your men not the first to break and flee before the pirates?"

"I say!" Trimble stamped his little foot on the stone floor.

"Did you fail to notice, sir, that not one pirate fell to your muskets or bayonets?" Turner continued. "Or were you too busy, sir, ordering a retreat, too distracted to stand and defend those innocent lives in town."

Trimble swore violently and shook his head, blood blotting the cloth bound about his head. "You miserable whoreson. My men stood! My men were butchered, all to save your filthy, knavish neck!"

"Lieutenant, restrain yourself!" Norrington bellowed and all fell silent. Trimble panted like a hard-pressed horse, his hand clamped over his brow.

"Sir, I am-"

But Norrington was furious and would listen to no excuse. "Return to your quarters, Trimble and see to your wound. And do not think to return to this Fort until you might conduct yourself in a moderate manner. Otherwise, your recent promotion may be reconsidered and I am in no mood to be generous."

Trimble nodded, his white lips trembling. "I am sorry, sir. Sorry. I am…I am so sorry."

Norrington stared at him. Trimble looked once at Gillette then slinked away. Turner followed him with his eyes, his face expressionless. Norrington wheeled on the young blacksmith.

"Mr. Turner, take your leave."

It was an order, one that Turner was wise enough to follow. He sighed once, shrugged his thin shoulders and left the alcove swinging his arms angrily back and forth. Norrington paced before the desk for a moment.

Damn their quarreling, he thought. Elizabeth Swann could already be dead.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, Peggy/Peter definitely has a hard time controlling herself which is certainly not helpful in her position. Thanks so much for reading! Please take the time to review and share your thoughts with me. 


	7. Chapter Six A Good Talking To

Hello and welcome to chapter six of "The Prickly Bush". I apologize for the delay in posting, my summer semester had kept me busier than expected. Fortunately, my last day is the 21st and I should have all summer to work on this story. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and those who reviewed, **J.B. Duenweg**, **Bizzy125**, **Random Authoress**, **xInaxheartbeat**, **MageofRoses** and **Avi**. Thank you all so much. I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!I clam no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.

Chapter Six A Good Talking To

Back in her room above the tavern, Peggy wiped the blood from her brow and wrapped a length of linen about the wound. But she frowned as she looked in the mirror above her washstand, marking her appearance as too feminine. The white cloth peeking out from under her wig matched her pale skin and her blanched face took at least five years off her actual age.

She grunted and pulled the bandage from her brow, consigning it to a basket of her soiled underclothes. Through the open window the sound of heavy wagon wheels on cobblestone alerted her. Peggy dared to glance out into the mucky street, her eyes catching a cart that rolled by the tavern at an obscenely slow pace. The bodies of three soldiers lay within the wooden bed. Peggy felt her stomach flop over and she clenched her jaw.

Damned pirates.

Peggy sank onto the edge of her bed and lay back. The grimy ceiling shifted, wavering before her eyes like a vapid mirage teasing the horizon. She shut her eyes against the pain gnawing at her skull.

Peggy had never intended to join the Royal Navy when she left Yorkshire. In fact, she had enlisted into the army first. On some foggy night she found her way to a bleak little tavern where recruiting sergeants often forced the king's shilling into the hands of drunken lads. Disguised in a pair of breeches that had belonged to her husband and a fraying jacket she had taken from a charitable vicar, Peggy signed on to be a drummer.

It had been a grand thing at first, full of pomp and play and processions. She enjoyed standing on the parade ground, pounding out some jaunty tattoo that called the soldiers to march. But upon one particularly hot afternoon, she had been accosted by a saucy little wench who had denounced her as "a scrawny pup". And Peggy had done what she always did, kicked the whore in the shins and ran.

Unfortunately, the wench had been the daughter of a prominent merchant and Peggy had no way to return to her regiment without facing a flogging. So she bid farewell to her handsome red tunic, wandering west until she came to the sea and a handsome little port town.

There she had spied a stately ship sitting in the harbor, with a tall mast and bonny white sails that looked like a dove's wing. Once more she dressed in a man's clothing and let a sailor take her onboard. After that, she had never quite left.

Peggy listened for any sign of the ponderous cart. But it had long rolled away, leaving the street empty and bare but for the straggling civilians who sought to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives.

"Hey ho! You cannot possible be abed!" And the door to her tiny room opened, sending her shooting upright. Gillette leaned against the frame. "We've been looking for you, Trimble."

Horrified, Peggy realized that she had removed the neck cloth used to bind her breasts and lay in naught but her breeches and shirt. She wrapped her arms about herself and rolled over to face the wall. Bile rose up in her throat.

"I'll have none of this barging in," she grumbled, praying that Gillette had noticed nothing. He laughed.

"Groves is down by the docks with Norrington. Are you coming along now? Or are you too harried to face James?"

"That's no business of yours," she said, trembling with relief. He had seen nothing.

"It is my business." Peggy heard Gillette's footsteps on the creaking floorboards as he moved into the room. "You had quite the row with Norrington, quite the-"

"Oh shut it."

"Cheeky little thing," Papers shuffled and Peggy dared to look over her shoulder. Gillette was fingering through several unfinished watercolors on the table. "These are new, aren't they?"

She grimaced as he held one aloft. "I have no talent for it."

He frowned discerningly and inspected the painting with his keen eyes. "Of course you do, my pet. It is a lovely bird."

"A tree, actually."

"That is what I meant." He laid the parchment back on the table and some of the jollity vanished from his face. "I have been meaning to give you a good talking to."

Peggy chewed her lower lip nervously and stared at the wall. There was an ugly thumbprint just below the windowsill that looked suspiciously like blood. "What for?"

Gillette cleared his throat. "You should have never lost your temper before Norrington. He prizes a certain amount of control in his officers, which hitherto, you have not displayed."

Peggy's stomach flipped over. "And you're a pillar of stoicism?"

"Peter."

"The Turner boy deserved it, he's a whelp."

"I am not quite sure of that. The lad is an annoyance, but not a-"

"You were quick enough to defend me," she snapped.

"I had to."

Peggy shifted her jaw. Gillette was right, he always was. "Let's not talk this over now, please," she said. "I have enough of a headache."

He sighed. "Mind yourself, for my sake."

"I will."

"Then I'm going down to the docks. James wants me on the _Dauntless_. Oh, I hope to God the pirates did little damage."

"Well then, I will see you shortly."

But Gillette didn't move. "You won't walk me out?"

"No," Peggy said firmly, her nails digging in her biceps. Once more, she glanced over her shoulder at him.

"You are a funny lad, Peter," Gillette said with a soft smile. He turned on his heel and moved out into the hall. Peggy waited until the door clicked close before she rose and slid the bolt across.

Then turning to the laundry basket, she began to rifle through the musty smelling clothes. At the bottom, she found a two yellowed neck cloths. One she bound about her brow, ignoring the sting as the stiff material stuck to her broken flesh and the other she wrapped about her chest.

Thank God Gillette had noticed nothing. She smiled. He was like her mother and the way he crooned and clucked over her suggested nothing but a maternal air.

And Theodore Groves was her brother, the renegade, the often not proper man who liked to make her laugh.

What then, was Norrington to her? Ah, Norrington. He was a strange sort of fellow.

Peggy slipped on her jacket and paced to the door. Downstairs, her landlady, Mrs. Prevost, was shrieking over the state of her sitting room. Peggy groaned, knowing that she would have to come out of hiding sometime soon.

With a sigh, Peggy wrenched open her door and trotted down the stairs. Mrs. Prevost met her at the bottom step, her small, lithe frame beguiling the strength within.

"Have you seen the sitting room?" she asked hotly.

"Nay, ma'am." Peggy shook her head. "And pardon me for not weeping over your smashed furniture. I've more important things to attend to."

Mrs. Prevost reached out and latched onto Peggy's wrist. "I only let you board here because you promised me protection."

"That and several shillings a month. Dammy, I could have me own house, you know. Be happy I abide here."

"Speaking of which," Mrs. Prevost paused and squeezed her wrist, "you're late with the rent."

"Sorry." Peggy waved her away. "More important things to attend to."

"I'll bring it up with the Commodore, I will!"

Peggy cringed. She didn't much like causing trouble, especially the sort that turned sharp attention her way. "All right, then," she said, "all right. I'm going to be honest with you, ma'am. I haven't got the rent."

"Spent it all on drink!"

Peggy ignored her, moving into the common room of the small tavern. Broken chairs lay on their sides and a long table was overturned. The windows were all smashed in. Peggy stepped carefully over the glass.

"They broke in?" she asked.

"Aye." Mrs. Prevost took her broom in hand. "I hid in the cellar. They all ran off though, back to their ship before much damage was done."

"I'm sorry," Peggy repeated, feeling just a touch of guilt.

Mrs. Prevost mumbled to herself.

"Look, I haven't got the rent like I said." Peggy placed her hands on her hips and faced Mrs. Prevost. "But I'll let you go into my room and take the bottle of brandy I keep beneath my bed. Is that fair now, ma'am?"

Mrs. Prevost seemed to consider. "Well, I could use a drink."

"That's right!" Peggy clapped her on the back. "Now I'm likely to be off to sea for awhile. If I don't come back, Lieutenant Gillette gets my sketchbook and watercolors and Lieutenant Groves gets my set of pewter goblets."

"And Commodore Norrington?" Mrs. Prevost asked, leaning on the long handle of her broom.

Peggy smiled. "He's to have the gold ring I keep on my person. So don't go scrounging for it in my room."

Mrs. Prevost frowned. "And what if all three of you die?"

Peggy shrugged. "Then take what you will."

The notion seemed to please Mrs. Prevost even more. She hummed a little as she swept away the glass, waving absently at Peggy as she strolled out the door and down the street.

Peggy glanced once back at the tavern. The small garden surrounding it was overgrown and weeds poked through the old fence. Inside, Mrs. Prevost began to sing in a high voice and Peggy picked up the tune as she walked down to the docks.

"_I'll serve thee in such noble ways was never heard before. I'll crown and deck thee with all bays and love thee more and more_."

* * *

"Don't you think you were a bit harsh on him, sir? Just a bit harsh?" 

Norrington glanced up at Groves, his brow creasing. "Not at all, Theodore."

Groves snapped shut the log book in his hands and frowned. "It was a bloody hard night, sir and Peter had the worst of it."

"I know." Norrington turned away from his young Lieutenant, his sharp eyes hitting the waves and focusing on the blank horizon. The waterfront was still scorched and sore and shattered after the night's siege. His sailors scrambled over broken barrels and splintered docks, making haste to prepare for their voyage. It was slow work, Norrington noted with a great sense of dissatisfaction. Very slow work. Who knew what had become of poor Elizabeth already.

Ships smoldered in the harbor, but Norrington was pleased to find both the _Dauntless _and _Interceptor _untouched. One he could rely on for power, the other for speed and with any luck they would catch up to the pirates in no time.

Groves took off his hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his coat. "I don't think you should have sent Trimble off at any rate. Poor lad."

Norrington rolled his shoulders, struggling to ignore the small amount of guilt that gnawed at him. He _had_ been overly harsh with Trimble, though the matter could not be amended now.

"Look, here he comes." Groves tapped Norrington on the elbow. "Try to act kindly towards him."

"Are you dictating to me?" Norrington asked with a hint of a smile.

Groves winked and turned back to his business in the log book. Trimble walked lightly down onto the dock looking more than a little sobered.

"Theodore." The boy nodded at Groves, then looked to Norrington. "Sir."

Norrington nodded in return. "You look dreadful."

"Thank you, sir. Always nice to be greeted with a compliment."

Norrington cringed inwardly, sensing Trimble's evident displeasure. Wounded pride ran deep, especially in a man like Trimble.

Norrington cleared his throat. "Will you come here, lad? Come here!"

Trimble obeyed, but with a sour face. Norrington lifted the bandage about his brow and inspected the gash.

"You haven't had it stitched up?"

"My apologies, sir. I didn't realize you ordered it so."

Norrington smoothed the bandage back in place with a frown. "Well, now you are just being saucy."

Groves stifled a chuckle. Trimble sniffed.

"Again, my apologies sir. I shan't speak unless requested."

"Oh God." Norrington raised his head, his eyes fixed on the serene heavens. "I was overly harsh, Peter, I know that. And I am sorry for scolding you so, but you should have kept a still tongue in your head in front of the blacksmith."

"He's offering you an apology, Peter," Groves said under his breath. "Accept it, please."

Trimble shifted awkwardly. "All right," he said softly. "I'm sorry, sir. My conduct was insolent indeed."

"And now let us never speak of this again," Groves muttered. "Andrew will be quite pleased to hear that you two have made up. As for me, the constant prattle was pressing upon my nerves."

"Is Andrew on the _Dauntless _now?" Trimble asked, raising his sharp, little chin.

Norrington half-turned, pointing to the harbor. "He is-"

"Sir! They've taken the _Dauntless_!"

Norrington wheeled around. Lieutenant Gillette was standing in a longboat, his arms thrashing about wildly like a man possessed.

"Sir!" he screamed, gesturing at the _Dauntless_. "Sparrow and Turner! They've taken the ship!"

"Oh dear," Trimble said in his shrill voice. "I sincerely hope I am not blamed for this as well."

* * *

**Author's Note: **The song Peggy sings in the chapter comes from the chorus of the folk song "Montrose". Thanks so much for reading! Please take the time to review and share your thoughts with me. 


	8. Chapter Seven A Distinctly Feminine

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter six of "The Prickly Bush". I apologize for the delay in posting. This chapter was quite difficult to write and I actually rewrote it several times. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and those who reviewed, **Bizzy125**, **MageofRoses**, **DemonicSymphony**, **Random Authoress**, **una hija de las estrellas**, **Jester Kit**, **Menerothiel**, **HecateTriformis**, **CC** and **Xewioso** Thank you all so much, your feedback means the world to me. I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread many times) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I clam no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.

Chapter Seven A Distinctly Feminine Bearing

A good measure of excitement hummed in Peggy's veins as she followed Norrington and Groves aboard the _Interceptor_. The sails unfurled like great banners, a knight's standard and bulged as the wind rushed into them. Sailors dashed about, some slipping, some stumbling as they hurried to ready the ship and push her out into the cerulean waters of the harbor. Norrington was barking orders, only a few of which Peggy heard. The rest were lost in the pleasant blurriness that settled over her. She leaned against the railing.

"Are you half silly, lad?" Groves called over his shoulder as he rushed past her. "Come to, by God!"

"Aye, aye." Peggy straightened and hastened along the deck after him. Through the forest of rope and tall wooden masts she saw the smooth hull of _Dauntless _slicing through the waves. Sparrow and Turner had worked quickly, damn it all.

"I wonder why old Gillette gave her up in the first place?" she asked, placing herself by Groves' side on the quarter deck.

"Never mind that now." He shoved beckoned furiously at an idling sailor. "Come, lads! Come! Bring her about."

"No worries," Peggy said. The _Dauntless _was already slowing, her sails falling lax. "We'll be alongside them in no time."

"Aye, but a worthless trifle this is," Groves growled, the wind threatening to sweep his hat from his head.

"Turner is a whelp," Peggy replied. "Remember, I said it from the first!"

"That you did."

And to her utter amazement, Norrington joined them, his hands knotted behind his back.

"Prepare a boarding party, they won't scurry away this time."

"Yes, sir." And Groves dashed away with one hand pressed atop his head.

Peggy straightened her own hat and looked out over the waters to where the _Dauntless _had come to a stop.

"It's not much a chase," she said with a frown. "Pity, I much prefer running them down."

Norrington glanced at her. "You are a remarkably strange lad, Trimble," he said, exhaling sharply. The sun hit his face and chased away the dark shadows under his eyes. "And not half as soft as you look."

"A compliment, sir." Peggy bowed, regretting it when her head swam, the blood rushing straight to knot on her brow.

"We're nearly on them now, sir!" Groves bellowed from somewhere on the lower deck.

Norrington paced. "Grapnels ready! Prepare to board!" He beckoned Peggy with a flick of his wrist. "Trimble, you stay with me and perhaps you might demonstrate some of that valor Groves is always spouting speeches about."

Peggy flushed, biting back a smile. "An honor, sir." This time she made sure not to bow.

Norrington rushed down the stairs onto the main deck with Peggy close on his heels. She found that she had difficulty walking in a straight line and her feet felt more like lead than anything else. Annoyed, she scrubbed her forehead with the heel of palm. The pain lessened some, but not quite enough.

The _Interceptor _pulled even with the _Dauntless, _wooden planks stretching across the distance between the two ships as sailors scrambled from one deck to another. Peggy stayed just behind Norrington and she strained her neck to see over his great, broad shoulders.

The main deck seemed empty and marines flooded every inch of it. Peggy caught sight of the steely glint of fixed bayonets and drawn swords. Turner and Sparrow certainly had no place to run now.

"Trimble, search the aft cabins," Norrington shot over his shoulder at her. "Mind you, I want them alive."

"Aye, sir," Peggy replied dryly. She would make him no further promises. Five marines were marshaled together and she ordered them to the very stern of the ship into the officer's quarters.

It was a sacred place or so Peggy had always fancied and not to be sullied by pirate hands. With some reverence, she opened the main door leading to the cabin and chart room.

There was some matter of stillness about the place and it sat tucked away from the chaos on deck. Peggy squinted, her eyes adjusting to the grayness of the cabin. A fine carpet cushioned and muted her footfalls. Maps decorated the walls, yellowed and old like tapestries found in decaying castles.

Peggy beckoned the rest of men in and rounded the formidable table that sat in the center. Her hand skirted the very top of it, brushing away a fine layer of dust. The silence unnerved her.

Out of habit, she unsheathed her sword. A single beam of sunlight fell through the grimy windows and touched the wooden floor, coloring it bronze.

"Sir," a hushed whisper made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. A milk-faced marine stepped close to her side. "I heard a noise, sir." And he gestured to a wide weathered chest that had been pushed up against the wall.

Peggy raised a brow. Oh, how she would love to deliver the whelps unto Norrington and enjoy his praises. She smirked, taking a tentative step toward the chest. The lock had been undone, she noticed and the lid seemed to be lifted up slightly.

"I'll kill that Turner whelp," Peggy muttered. And she would have. There was little room in her prickly heart for fools and giddy romantics. In her mind, Turner had the worst of both traits and he had vexed Norrington. That was quite enough for her.

With the flat of her sword, she banged on the lid of the old chest. That ought to give the fellow quite a scare. Yes, quite a scare indeed.

The marines were standing about, muskets pressed to their shoulders and aimed just at the chest. Peggy glared at them.

"Don't shoot my bloody hand off now, lads," she said. A moment of breathless silence past and her heart slammed against her ribcage. And then, with a snarl, she threw back the lid, ready to run the thieves through.

Instead, her sword sliced through a stack of old maps. Peggy cursed and kicked the trunk.

"Where are they now, by God? Where are they?"

The pop of musketry sounded on deck. Peggy jumped. The marines started and stared at her.

"On deck!" she bellowed. "Don't stand there now! On deck!"

There was a general rush for the door and Peggy only succeeded in making it out first by driving her elbow into the nose of a particularly pushy private. Gun smoke flew into her face, smelling of rotten eggs and other putrid things. Peggy sputtered and waded through the gray haze.

Standing along the railing were a dozen or so marines, firing an uneven volley in the direction of the _Interceptor_. Peggy forced her way through the gawking crowd of sailors and officers, just in time to see Sparrow bid them adieu from his place at the helm.

"Thank you, commodore, for getting us ready it make way. We'd had a hard time of it by ourselves."

Peggy groped for her pistol, disappointment dropping into her gut like a large stone when she realized the pirate was out of range. Damn it all.

Norrington, however, seemed more determined.

"Set top sails and clear up this mess," he barked.

Peggy scrambled up to the quarter deck and exchanged a curious look with Groves.

"With the wind at a quarter astern, we won't catch them," he said.

Peggy shook her head. "Sparrow's having himself a fine laugh now."

Norrington whirled on them both, his face livid. "I don't need to catch them, just get them in range of the long nines."

"Sir!" Peggy gasped and her stomach turned over. "Sir, you can't mean to do such a thing." She trotted after him, her shoes skidding on the damp deck. "We can't fire on our own ship."

"I'd rather see her at the bottom of the ocean than in the hands of a pirate," Norrington said. Peggy noticed his clenched hands and the tense line of his back and she recognized the determined stance. No plea would move his iron heart.

She glanced at the _Interceptor _cutting gallantly through the waves, her sails caught high and pulled taut by an eager wind. Peggy's heart sank as she heard the rumble and groan of the guns as they were rolled out and made ready. Oh, how she would weep to see that fine hull punctured by murderous cannon shot.

And then they heard a cry, ringing from the throat of some young jack tar.

"Commodore, they've disabled the rudder chain, sir!"

Norrington staggered, leaning against the railing, his head bowed. He said nothing.

Groves, however, looked like a man saved from the gallows. "That has got to be the best pirate I've ever seen."

"So it would seem," Norrington muttered.

The sound of smashing wood rent the air and Peggy leaned over the railing, just in time to see the remnants of a longboat and Lieutenant Gillette go floating by.

* * *

Gillette looked somewhat like a drowned rat when he was pulled aboard the _Dauntless. _Streaming red hair stuck to his cheeks and he felt for his wig. 

"You've lost it, laddie," an all too cheerful voice crowed. "Probably tangled about some seaweed by now, I'd wager."

Gillette panted, falling against the railing of the ship with his hands braced on his thighs. "Oh shut it, Trimble." He looked up at the giggling boy through his drenched bangs.

"Lucky you have your life," Trimble said.

"I'd rather have the _Interceptor_." Gillette dropped his sopping blue coat onto the deck, shivering as a breeze swept over the ship and made his skin prickle. "By God, why didn't you come after us?"

Trimble shrugged, his face shining with sweat and ill-concealed mirth. "Sparrow disabled the rudder chain."

"Damn it," Gillette spat, ignoring Trimble's shocked expression. He was never one to resort to cursing. "How's the commodore?"

Trimble flinched. "Brooding. Theo's with him, I think, and as for myself, I shan't trouble him now. He was vexed enough with me this morning."

Gillette straightened and rubbed his chilled arms briskly. The sun had dipped behind thick clouds, leaving the sky bleak and black.

"Hand me your coat, my pet," he said, clenching his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

"Why?" Trimble hugged himself protectively, shying away from Gillette's outstretched hand.

"I'll catch my death otherwise," Gillette sighed, in no mood for any sort of game. Trimble's voice, however, was no longer playful.

"We'll be onshore soon enough."

Gillette raised a brow. "Peter?"

The boy seemed to hesitate, gnawing his lower lip. "All right then, but keep it clean! I've no money for a laundress."

"I do," Gillette assured him, gratefully taking the coat in hand and slipping it over his shoulders. Slowly, the warmth returned to his body. Trimble stood before him, arms folded over his chest.

"I don't know what you're so very sour about," Gillette sniffed. Trimble pouted and ambled over to his side, perching by the railing. He had a distinctly ruffled look about him, with his thin arms drawn close about his frame, his narrow shoulders slumped. Gillette studied his friend. He was a boy still, with a strange sort of figure and form, a distinctly feminine bearing.

Gillette shook his head. Oh, what a silly thought that was. A foolish, foolish thought. He clapped Trimble lightly on the shoulder.

"Well," the boy said at length and he smiled saucily once more, "did I not say that Turner was a whelp from the very first?"

"You did, Peter."

"Hmm, I fancy I'm wiser than you lot." Trimble shrugged and Gillette's hand fell from his shoulder.

"I wouldn't go that far, my pet," Gillette laughed, straining to annoy the desperate worry that had settled over him. He had lost the _Interceptor_, that bonny ship and a price would certainly be paid.

Trimble stepped way from the railing. "Groves."

Gillette looked up.

The man was indeed approaching, his pace more suited for a march to a graveyard than anything else. His bronzed face had sobered some and Gillette could find no mirth in his usually jolly eyes.

Dear God.

"The commodore," Groves said quietly when he drew near, his hands shoved in his pockets, "he wants to see you both, now."


End file.
